


idle hands are the devil's playthings

by spookyfoot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Biology, Developing Relationship, Emotional Edging, Fuck Or Die, Hand Kink, Humor, Keith has a thing for shiro's prosthetic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post S7, Sex Pollen, Sort Of, true love with some questionable choices along the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: Keith has too much time on his hands. It’s not a big deal, at first. There’s clean up, there’s training, there’s studiously suppressing his almost decade old less-than-platonic-feelings for Shiro.Business as usual.Except—Except that it used to be that there was no time to think about how much he wanted Shiro's hands on him.There’s nothing but time, now.





	1. hold on, go slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cainhurst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cainhurst/gifts).



> you can thank asce for this. the next chapter is fully written and the last one is 60% done. I have nightmares about editing which means I'll find many mistakes when I look at this tomorrow. apologies until I catch them all, like the most shameful sort of pokemon. 
> 
> also thank u @ vld staff for making shiro's new arm so massive. i owe you my life
> 
> [also ASCE DID ART AND I AM STILL CRYING](https://twitter.com/LovTitania/status/1069867878952955905)

Keith has too much time on his hands. It’s not a big deal, at first. There’s clean up, there’s training, there’s studiously suppressing his almost decade old less-than-platonic-feelings for Shiro.

Business as usual.

Except—

Except it’s that last one that’s giving him trouble. Keith’s well practiced at keeping them under wraps. He’d only let it slip when _they’d_ slipped, from a knife’s edge away from death to nothing between them and free fall.

Shiro hadn't said anything about it since, so Keith hadn't either. And then there was no time to think about what he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about.

It’s a lull, maybe. A break in the chain of non-stop fucked up fuckery that’s been their lives for the past few years.

Three for them, five for everyone else, not accounting for time dilations and space whales. 

But everything was a slipshod and frantic scramble and the truth of it was that has never been enough time.

There was no time to think about how much he wanted Shiro's hands on him.

There’s nothing but time, now.

___________________________________

“You should take the afternoon off,” Commander Holt says. He’s earnest and convincing and before Keith knows it, he’s on a hoverbike out in the desert sketching the hard stretch flat plains and the distant line of caves on the horizon.

Or.

That’s what he’s meant to be doing.

Without realizing it, his pencil decides on another path; the discrete ridged knuckles, the broad open palm—

Shiro’s new arm.

Keith frowns. It’s not a bad drawing but it’s not great, either. It doesn’t look right; there’s something missing. Something he can’t put a finger on.

He turns the pad to a fresh page and presses pencil to paper again.

 _Okay_.

He’ll get it this time.

___________________________________

But he tries and tries and tries and still, something's not quite right. Whatever it is, though, it keeps eluding his grasp.

___________________________________

Shiro’s been more physically distant since being restored to the clone’s body. The smiles, the words, the looks just for Keith, all those are still there. But now he hesitates before curling a hand around Keith’s shoulder, or poking his side during a boring meeting, or wrapping Keith in his arms for a hug.

“Am—did I do something?” Keith says. He’s thinking of the cold purple light of the facility, the searing heat of Shiro’s plasma blade against his cheek. The words that he’d forced out, not quite wrong, but not quite right, either.

“ _No_ ,” Shiro says. “You didn’t do anything. It’s me.” He runs a hand through his hair. “After spending so much time without a body—”

Keith tries, and fails, to suppress his wince.

“—I’m more sensitive to physical stimuli than before.”

Oh. Well. That's—“We can fix that,” Keith says.

“I don’t know that it’s something I can fix,” Shiro says. “This body may not have—it may be healthy but there are bound to be drawbacks.”

“ _We can fix this_ ,” Keith says, and he feels like he’s talking about too many things at once.

“I'm not sure,” Shiro says, but he’s hesitating.

“It can’t hurt to try. Worst case scenario? You’re in the same place you started, but at least you gave it a shot,” Keith says. Shiro’s fighting a smile because he’s the one who said that to Keith, years ago.

“It's not just this body, though. It's the arm too,” Shiro says. He holds his new prosthetic out in front of him, palm up, and flexes the fingers.

Keith's throat goes dry. He swallows again and then again but it doesn't help.

“So it's got more sensitive touch receptors?” Keith asks. His voice cracks a little but he pushes past it. He's got “avoiding mutually uncomfortable conversations about our relationship” down to a science, but this is how they've always been. They've always been able to sense the shape of one another's orbit and emotions, even through silence.

“Yeah. It's almost like—before. I have a better sense of textures, temperatures, that sort of thing," Shiro says, looking away. The tops of his ears have gone red but he's still wearing his uniform jacket. Maybe he's just warm. "I guess I got used to the old one. That plus the body...it feels like I'm made of nerve endings, sometimes.”

“So then all we need to do is get them dialed in to a normal level of contact.”

“How?”

“Well. It's like wading into a pool of cold water and adjusting to the temperature. You know, exposure therapy.”

“So, what, I just, ask people to touch me?” Shiro asks, palming the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to ask just anyone. It should be someone you feel comfortable with. Physically.”

Shiro’s face glows a dull red. “Oh, uh.”

“What?”

“Well. You’re the only one that fits that description. And I can’t ask you to—”

“You don’t have to ask. I already said I'd help.”

“Keith—”

“Not negotiable.”

Shiro is still flushed but he smiles and says _okay_ and that’s all the go ahead Keith needs.

___________________________________

It's not until later that he realizes just what he's suggested and agreed to.

___________________________________

Keith shifts, hard and red hot and wanting. He needs—

He needs.

It's dim and dark and he can't see anything but he can _feel._ Something cool brushes across his forehead before dipping down to thumb the curve of his cheek.

“Keith.”

The voice is familiar but—it's deeper, rougher.

“ _Keith.”_

 _“_ Shir—”

Keith wakes up.

Why is his room so hot?

He twists and turns in his bed, sheet tangled up between his legs, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead. He’s not wearing anything other than underwear but the sheet keeps sticking to his skin and no matter what he does, he can’t get comfortable. He’s not sure sleep’s even worth the attempt at this point. He ends up facing the left wall of his room; Shiro’s just on the other side. He could—

No, he can’t. Shiro doesn’t sleep well as it is, he doesn’t need Keith interrupting. Especially not when Keith’s—whatever this is. Keith had spent last night in Shiro’s room, anyways. Had fallen asleep on the couch, face mashed into the surface of his data pad. Keith turns over, whines into his pillow. It’s like there’s something itching under his skin. He can’t put his finger on why, though.

 _That’s fine_ , he thinks, rising to his feet and pulling on a shirt, _I can put a fist to a punching bag instead._

He can and he does but even though it takes some of the sting off, it doesn’t do much to soothe the burn smoldering beneath.

___________________________________

Keith doesn't mean to talk to his mom about his sex adjacent dreams, it just sort of happens.

They meet a few times a week to have dinner. Keith keeps expecting her to cancel one week or another, tell him the Blades need her for some urgent cause off planet. It's not that he thinks she wants to leave, but if there's a universal power out there then it has a sadistic enjoyment of snatching the people he loves the most out if his life without warning.

It's not going to be any easier, but this is the most he can prepare.

Still, his mom is there when he enters the mess hall. She sits with her shoulders square and fingers laced together, surveying the rest of the room's occupants. No one sits near her; there are a few stragglers sitting on the outskirts of her table, but the middle is her domain. She waves to Keith, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Keith takes a seat across the table, bag thumping against the bench when he sets it down.

“How was your day?” Krolia asks, eyebrow raised. “Do I need to prepare to hide the bodies?”

Keith rolls his eyes but smiles.

There are a lot of reasons Keith loves his mom, but a big one is how she never assumes he's frustrated without reason.

“Not yet,” Keith says. He sets his tray down in front of him and pokes at the vegan meatloaf in front of him. Resources are still hard to come by, so the Garrison chefs have gotten creative with soy. Or tried to.

“Keep me posted,” Krolia says, tone at odds with the amusement in her eyes.

“I will,” Keith says. He pushes his meatloaf apart with his fork. It doesn’t look any more appetizing in pieces.

“What did you do today?” she asks.

So he tells her. About running drills with the younger cadets, about them calling him _sir,_ about how weird it is to be on the other side of things.

Even now it amazes him how invested she is in every detail of his life.

( _Making up for lost time._ )

“And you had to do those kinds of drills when you were a cadet here?” 

“Yeah. Though I wasn’t any good at them.”

“I find that hard to believe, you’re an excellent pilot.”

Keith lets out an ugly snort. “Sure but these aren’t about piloting. They’re more like the multiplication tables of flying—a good basic foundation, mind numbing, and frustrating as hell.”

The multiplication tables of flying; Shiro had called them that, before—everything. It’s not like the drills had gotten any better after that, but Shiro managed to convince him that if he could color inside the lines for a little while, the brass wouldn’t mind as much when he colored outside of them.

Keith yawns.

“Not sleeping well?” Krolia asks with an unreadable smile. 

“Uh. No, ” Keith say, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear from where it’s slipped free of his ponytail.

"Someone keeping you up at night?"

"Nope. Definitely not." Sometimes, the fact that she's lived through so many of his memories comes to back to haunt him.

" _Keith_."

Keith glances at either end of the table; no one’s close enough to overhear. He leans in.

“Is there, I don’t know, is there uh—what’s Galra puberty like?”

Krolia chokes on her water.“That’s not what I was expecting.”

Keith hesitates. “What were you expecting?”

She laughs, “I had a couple options in mind but not that one.”

She's not telling him the whole story but she’s been a Blade for a long time, he’s not getting it out of her unless she decides she wants him to know.

“Why do you ask?”

Keith flushes. “Just. Some dreams. Have made it difficult to sleep.”

She laughs and the back of his neck burns. “That sounds like human hormones to me,” she looks at him with a wry smile. “Those seem to be the more dominant set of genetics.”

“I would have to agree with Krolia on that,” Kolivan says, appearing from nowhere. He hands Krolia a drive smaller than a thumbnail. "Besides, if you were having _Galra puberty_ , as you termed it, you would know. Most of the Garrison would.” Kolivan continues, both reassuring and terrifying.

“Right. Okay. This never happened,” Keith says. He stuffs a bite of meatloaf into his mouth. It tastes awful but it's better than continuing this conversation.

At least his mom and Kolivan both specialize in keeping secrets.

___________________________________

But Keith can't shake the memory of his dream, not when he goes to meet Shiro for their first “touch therapy” session. Especially not then.

It haunts him during their second try, too.

And their third.

And their thirtieth.

___________________________________

  
Shiro's the one who suggests the lounge. Maybe out of lingering nostaligia for the one in the Castle; the rare quiet nights when they'd watch incomprehensible Altean movies more for company than entertainment.

Keith agrees.

They start side by side, thighs pressed together, poring over a map of the territories still occupied by Galra warlords and the last holdouts of the Empire.

Shiro tenses at first. Keith stays exactly where he is and lets Shiro adjust. By the end of the night, he only relaxes a few degrees, but it's something.

And it's something that's working.

A few weeks in, it’s an arm around Keith’s shoulder, Keith’s head tucked against Shiro’s throat. Keith tries not to think too hard on the way Shiro’s pulse races against his cheek, or when Keith breathes against his neck, nose buried in the hollow between his neck and shoulder.

Then, more recently, it's Shiro in Keith’s arms, head against his chest, pouring over a report on his data pad while Keith draws patterns on his scalp with his fingernails.

Keith doesn't think sanything of it until Lance swaggers into the lounge one day, loudly regaling the MFE pilots of the time he saved an entire planet of mermaids. He stops mid sentence, eyes wide, before Rizavi holds out a hand.

"Pay up, sucker."

Lance sighs, and dips his hand into his pocket.

He pulls a few bills from his wallet, and hands them over. Rizavi shuffles the bills in her hands like they're playing cards.

"This is bullshit. And I owe Pidge twenty bucks, too,” Lance mutters.

Shiro squirms a little against Keith’s chest. 

“Lance _._ Can I talk to you?” Keith says. He winds himself from Shiro’s arms, chest already cold.

“Shoot.”

“ _Alone.”_

“Sure thing, team leader,” Lance says with an insufferable grin and a salute that makes Keith want to punch him—well, punch him more.

Lance can thank the two years on a space whale for the fact that Keith waits until they're in the hallway to do it.

“What the hell was that for?”

“I'm the one that should be asking _you_ that,” Keith says. “What was that about?” Even as he asks, Keith still isn’t sure he wants to know.

"What was what?"

"The money. Rizavi. _That,_ " Keith waves a hand around, "whole thing."

Lance rolls his eyes. “Buddy. You seriously cannot think none of us noticed that you and Shiro started dating. You guys are like, the most obvious couple I've ever seen. It's kinda cute but also kinda gross. Which is a combo that just screams new relationship.”

Keith is pretty sure he's woken up in an alternate reality because what. “I'm not dating Shiro.”

“Right, I get it, you're a modern man, he's dating _you_ ,” Lance says with a wink. Keith is going to have nightmares about that face. “But if you wanted to keep this under wraps you probably shouldn't have cuddled in the lounge.”

Keith's not going to open the can of worms in Lance’s last sentence. “I'm not dating Shiro, Lance.”

Lance's grin falters. “Dude, are you dating someone else? Did you tell Shiro? You gotta tell Shiro, he's going to be heartbroken—”

“Neither of us are dating anyone,” Keith pauses. “At least I'm not.”

“Okay,” Lance says. “So. What was that?”

There are times Keith really hates his life.

“I'm just—helping Shiro. Physically and emotionally.”

“ _Helping him physically and emotionally._ That sounds like you’re dating. Exactly like you’re dating.”

“We’re not.”

“Can't wait to hear about the platonic handj—actually you know what? I never want to hear about that. Forget I said anything.”

Keith is going to forget everything about this conversation. “Done.”

“So, if you're not dating,” Lance says, “what's all the PDA about?”

“Like I said, helping Shiro." Then Keith turns and walks back into the lounge.

“Everything okay?” Shiro asks. He's still on the couch but he's vertical now and Griffin, Leifsdottir, Rizavi, and Kinkade are all gathered around the couch in a loose semi circle. His face is a still flushed and he's pushed his hair back out of his eyes.

_Is he getting sick?_

Griffin’s staring at Keith, though, arms folded across his chest and a look Keith has no idea how to read.

“Yeah. Fine. I'm gonna head back to my room,” he says. No sooner has he said it than he feels the wolf nosing at the center of his palm. “See you later,” he says and then he's gone in a flash of ozone.

It’s a smoother exit than he probably deserves, but that’s the wolf, not him.

___________________________________

They do exposure therapy in private, after that.

___________________________________

Operating under the Garrison’s chain of command is a special kind of hell, and Keith has been to enough alien planets to have a healthily developed infernal spectrum. The temporary peace means that the wartime dismissal of paperwork is over. And there's a lot of paperwork—a lot. Keith could swim in it for a full day without ever breaking the surface.

The other paladins have some, too, but not as much as he and Shiro do. Shiro has the captain’s quarters on the Atlas, noticeably bigger than everyone else’s rooms. Although Shiro had tried to cede them to Commander Holt, Atlas made sure that no matter what door Shiro walked through in the evening, he always ends up in the captain’s quarters.

Shiro and his ship are well matched for stubbornness, but as much as it’s unstoppable force meet immovable object, Shiro still needs Atlas’s consent to fly.

Altas also always makes sure Keith's room is right next to Shiro's.

Not that it matters much—Keith ends up spending most of his time in Shiro’s quarters, anyways.

They get into a routine. Worldlessly orbiting around each other given shape by one another's gravity. Keith carves out a place on Shiro's couch, both of their piles of paperwork teetering precariously no matter how much they think they've gotten through that evening. Shiro always starts at his desk, hunched over beneath the pool of lamplight. He's started wearing reading glasses recently and Keith is suffering just like he always suffers because Shiro makes everything impossibly attractive.

Still, Keith keeps helping Shiro get accustomed to his new arm, like the self destructive dumbass he's apparently decided he is.

One time they test the range of Shiro's arm with the wolf. He teleports away and Shiro tries to summon it back to him. The arm is so attuned the electromagnetic field surrounding Shiro's body it can return to him even when the wolf takes it out into the middle of the desert near the shack.

Shiro laughs when the door to his suite slams open, as the arm returns to him, the wolf in hot pursuit, smile lines creasing the corners of his eyes.

Keith wants to see that look on his face more often.

They do tests on dexterity and range and sensitivity. So many goddamn tests for sensitivity. Keith becomes familiar with the feel of metal fingers sifting through his hair, now long enough to fall past his shoulders. He's familiar with the feel of cool fingers mapping the lines of his plan, gentle but sure. Keith is aware of what Shiro's hands feel like across so many parts of his body—both of them. They've been trying to give Shiro's prosthetic a set of sense memories to work off of as a guide, which means Keith lives with the after image of Shiro's hands tracing the shape of his shoulders, his scalp, his waist. It's wonderful and terrible all at once.

Keith has more than enough imagination to dream about what those hands would feel like in other places, too.

They're supposed to remain dreams, but they're insidious; determined and they find their way into daylight, running through his head and running him ragged.

It's just—it's just that Keith has too much time.

___________________________________

Keith goes out the desert to draw again. It's become a habit now that they're in a lull. Before, it was whenever he could grab some time out of the ridiculous schedule that the universe dictated.

He'd sketched the Lions, the other Blades between missions, and the dips and ridges of distant planets he could never be sure he'd see again.

All his life he'd been leaving people and places. This way, he could hold on just a little longer, push his understanding a little deeper, find a way to keep some hold on the things he had to leave behind.

It's twilight by the time Keith only makes it out to the painted cliffs. He sits alongside the edge, the desert stretched out before him, a labryinth of caves pressed against the horizon.

The sun is setting fast, though, so he doesn't have long before he'll be drawing stars instead but its a good timer. It forces him to draw instead of think. And all he's been able to think about lately is—

_no_

_focus._

It works until it doesn't. Once night falls, he keeps drawing and ends up with a whole sheet of hands. Shiro's hands. They look better than last time, but they're still not _right_.

Keith closes his sketchbook. He stuffs it into his bag before slinging the strap over his shoulder. This time of night the desert is cool, all the heat leached from the sand. But, there's an unshakable warmth beneath Keith's skin.

He loosens the top buttons of his coat. It doesn't help. He still feels tendrils of heat curling up from the base of his spine as he swings a leg over his bike and revs the engine. Even after the long drive back to the Garrison, wind stripping his skin, he still feels too warm.

___________________________________

He doesn't expect Shiro to be waiting for him when he gets back, but there he is, popping his head out of his doorway just as Keith goes to unlock his own.

“Hey,” Shiro says.

“Hey,” Keith says. He frowns, "is everything okay?"

“Just...didn’t want to do paper work alone,” Shiro says, palming the back of his neck with his Altean arm. Keith tries not to track it too closely, fails.

“Okay, let me grab mine.”

“It's already here, you left it on the table yesterday.”

Keith doesn’t remember leaving it, but he hasn’t been sleeping well. He lets it go and follows Shiro into his suite. He’s still too warm. He drops his bag on the ground and shucks his jacket. It helps a little but not enough.

"Did you have a good time?" Shiro asks.

"Yeah. It was good," Keith says.

"I'm not gonna ask, but maybe bring sunscreen next time," Shiro says with a smile.

"Okay, _Captain,_ " Keith says.

It’s only then that he remembers he still has the drawings of Shiro in his bag. A whole sketchbook full of them.

He sits down on the couch, and desperately tries to think of something. Anything other than Shiro and his drawings of Shiro and the fact that Shiro’s arm is floating across the room to ruffle his hair.

_Wai—_

Keith jumps, but manages to contain the worst of it. He thinks.

“Are you okay?” Shiro asks.

“Fine,” Keith says, but his voice cracks a little and without looking he can tell that of the two people in this room, exactly zero of them believed that.

“Okay,” Shiro says, pulling out the chair at his desk. He pauses before sitting down, “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Keith smiles. It’s true—with one glaring exception. “Yeah, of course. You too.”

Shiro smiles at him and gets to work. Keith sighs and does the same. It’s going to be a long night.

___________________________________

Four vargas later, Keith frowns down at the stack of paper in his lap. He's been staring at the same page for twenty doboshes.

Something prods him in the back of the head. He turns and sees Shiro suppressing a grin. His prosthetic hovers near Keith's ear. It's been a while since he's seen Shiro look like that.

Keith headbutts Shiro's arm because, even though he'd never admit it, Shiro secretly enjoys when Keith's a little bit of a brat.

“What was that for?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” Shiro says.

“If you're gonna distract me at least bring the rest of you over here.”

That's all it takes. Then Shiro's across the room and at the other end of the couch, prosthetic floating back towards his shoulder, heading for the space between Keith's open arms.

And Keith is weak. The feel of Shiro pillowed against his chest in a flash, chin flush with the top of Shiro's head. Keith can feel the rise and fall of Shiro's chest.

“How was your day?” Shiro asks. Voltron and Atlas worked separately today. Shiro’s command over Atlas is incredible and her maneuverability has grown in miles not feet, but these are the kinds of days where Keith feels Shiro's absence from the Lions like a constant ache beneath his skin.

“We’re getting better at piloting remotely. Still need to practice though,” Keith says. He leans down to press the side of his face against the top of Shiro's head. It smells just like it used to, before Kerberos. Keith wonders a little that of all things, it was Shiro's old brand of shampoo made it to the other side of the war. “What about you?”

“Drills with Atlas, working on mobility. Mostly I was with the Holts, they wanted to run some tests on my arm. Next step is optimizing it for combat,” Shiro sends it across the room to grab some papers from his desk. “I want to keep testing the range, see what it can really do.”

Keith can't take his eyes off Shiro's arm as it floats back towards the couch. He thinks of the way it spans his waist when whey hug, how it cups Keith's shoulder when they spar, thinks of Shiro using it to keep Keith thighs spread apart as Shiro ducks his head between his legs—

“So you're getting used to it?” Keith asks with an equal mix of desperation and curiosity because Shiro’s shifting against his chest at the worst possible moment.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, “I think so.”

At least one of them is.


	2. lights out, let go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the battle of the century: Keith's dick vs. Keith's fists. Who will win?
> 
> Or: Keith fights his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE LOVELY INCREDIBLY WONDERFUL ROBIN I LOVE U AND U ARE THE ABSOLUTE BEST
> 
> many many thanks to: verity, sarah, lorna, and ashley for looking over this chapter.

Keith is burning. Flames snake across his skin, sneak beneath his muscles, seep into his blood, the lick of them keeping time with his heartbeat. 

A set of hands is working their way across his body and under his shirt to trace patterns across his chest. One cool and one warm, both of them familiar in a way that his mind shys away from recognizing—like a piece of heated metal that’s still too hot to touch. He arcs into the feeling, into the way it leaves each millimeter of his skin indelibly altered. It's not enough—but it's still better than those painful seconds where the hands leave his skin all together—

Keith wakes up hard and wanting. When he takes himself in hand, there's only one person he's thinking about, only one person whose name spills from his lips in gasps and sighs as he comes. 

_Shiro._

It’s not like this is new. Shiro’s been his go-to masturbation fantasy for years. Keith’s just as skilled at handling his sword as he is at handling his, well, sword and looking Shiro in the eye the next day.

Masturbation fantasy Shiro is Keith’s longest and most lasting relationship.

Not to mention, he’s been spending most of his free time with Shiro, with Shiro’s hands wandering over (almost) all of him. The whole point was helping Shiro decrease his touch sensitivity and it seems like it’s worked. 

So why hell isn’t it working on Keith, too?

He pushes his sheets away, snagging his datapad to check the time. Only 2am. Not early enough for him to camp out in the Garrison cafeteria and pretend he’s decided to get an early start, but still too late for him to make his way to the gym and pummel a punching bag into some semblance of purpose. 

He’s already letting the light of his datapad screen dim, already dozing, ready to drift off as he leans in to the feel of heat buzzing underneath his skin. 

_____________________________________________

If Keith were ever dumb enough to confess his feelings (he's not), he knows Shiro would let him down gently. He’d give Keith a crinkle-eyed smile and a warm hug and Keith wouldn't feel the mortification seep in until he was alone. That's what he’d done, years ago, when Keith had approached him, shoulders square, chin defiantly raised and told Shiro how he felt. Staring down a deadline and the reality that he'd be spending the next three years alone, it was now or never before light years of stars separated him from the most important person in his life. 

It had been okay, standing there in Shiro's arms, head tucked in the crook of his shoulder, to feel like everything would be alright. Shiro made it clear how much Keith meant to him, made it clear that even though he didn’t return Keith’s feelings, he did love him. His love was just a different shade of red than Keith’s. It’s been a while since then; back when Shiro was seventy-five percent of the beefcake he is now, still sharp-jawed and striking, but dark-haired and with smiles that held less weight at the corners. Shiro still meant—means—everything to him; Shiro's friendship isn’t a consolation prize. Keith knew where they stood then, and he knows where they stand now. 

He can still see the dim, sickly purple light of his second confession, hear his heart racing in his ears. 

They’d both made it out of there with new scars, but some things had clearly stayed the same; Shiro’s feelings, devoted but platonic, hadn’t changed, even as Keith’s had only gotten stronger. 

_____________________________________________

Ten thousand years of unimpeded conquest means that Zarkon and Co. covered a lot of territory. The planets on the fringes of the Empire are always the hardest to convince that the Coalition is a change for the better—especially when most of them barely know what it is. Some of Earth’s diplomatic visitors are more enthusiastic though—maybe a little too much so. Keith’s become far too familiar with at least eight politely phrased variations on _thank you but no thank you, we really can't accept this plant until we know what sort of effect it'll have on Earth's ecosystem_.

Each of these generous “requests” means meeting after meeting while the Coalition leaders try to decide what the next variation of their answer will be. 

This is meeting number We-Don’t-Even-Bother-To-Count-Anymore. Keith’s trying to contain himself, but his collar is damp with sweat against the back of his neck and his legs keep twitching. He can’t stop thinking about his dream.

Shiro’s just making it worse. He keeps sending Keith looks, and his prosthetic keeps darting out and pausing just above Keith’s knee, as though to still him. That’s just the sweetest bit of torture—hoping that this will be the time that Shiro decides to put his hand on Keith’s knee—innocent and habitual as it would be for him—while praying that he won’t, because Keith’s body might as well be Judas, ready to hand up his feelings on a silver platter. 

_Focus._

Keith used to be so much better at this. He used to be better at pretending he wouldn’t let Shiro fuck him right here and now, on the table in front of everyone. 

“Time to move to our next item of discussion; planning for a new diplomatic contingent from Pallux,” Commander Holt says.

A month earlier the newly restored Palluxian Prince Liandros offered an orchard of potentially biome-shattering Not Trees at an interplanetary summit as part of securing an alliance between Pallux and Earth. While the Coalition declined Liandros’s _very generous_ gift, the Coalition’s interim political council had offered an invitation to spend a week on Earth instead. The Palluxians accepted with grace and—in Keith’s opinion—suspiciously pleased smiles.

“What do you think Keith?” Allura says. “Keith?”

Keith tries to contain his panic—unsuccessfully. From the expertly suppressed smirk on Shiro’s face, Shiro knows that Keith hasn’t been paying attention. At all.

“We’ve got most of this handled and there’s still a week before the Palluxians arrive. It seems like you could use some time off, too,” Shiro says.

He places a hand on Keith's shoulder. The Altean one. It's a familiar gesture between them, but Keith feels unsettled. He shouldn’t be afraid of getting hard just because Shiro touched his shoulder. But _shouldn’t_ doesn’t mean shit.

_____________________________________________

But the Paladins could all use a break from these Coalition meetings and they’ve all got time— something they didn’t have before. Something that’s slowly been driving Keith crazy.

So, Keith agrees. It’s not until later that Keith finds out that Lance is the one who suggested a beach day. He doesn’t even attempt to mask his surprise. 

“I’m offended. I have tons of good ideas!” Lance says.

Keith makes a non-committal noise because that’s patently untrue. Lance’s good ideas are like Shiro’s calendrical birthday—they only happen once every four years.

But a _yes_ is a _yes_ and the team picks a weekend where they’d already planned on taking a break from drills. Keith insists on stea—borrowing one of the MFEs. Griffin keeps saying that there’s nothing like flying one and Keith wants to see how it handles. 

Shiro gives him a look when Keith reveals that he swiped the codes from Commander Holt. “You could have just asked me,” he says before he slides behind the cockpit of his own MFE fighter. Then he shoots Keith a smug “Race you,” and takes off before Keith even has a chance to get his own code keyed in. 

“Did Shiro just do...that?” Keith hears Lance say over Blue’s comms.

“See you there,” Keith says, gripping the controls, already halfway out of the hanger and closing the gap between himself and Shiro. He can just see the gleam of Shiro’s MFE hurtling toward the horizon, a small plume of exhaust behind him. 

Keith knows the the MFEs don’t normally emit exhaust—they don’t need to. Shiro did this on purpose, a trail of breadcrumbs turned taunt. Keith smiles. It’s so on. 

_____________________________________________

In the end, Keith and Shiro get there at about the same time. A photo finish, or it would be, except that they’re both so far ahead of the rest of their party there’s no one else there to take a photo and decide who won. 

Keith peels out of his MFE to declare himself the winner. Shiro’s already there, sweat-damp hair matted to his forehead and a breathtaking smile splitting his face. It’s a smile Keith hasn’t seen in—years. The soft sort of smile he was half-convinced he’d imagined all together, some sort of fevered, hormone-derived daydream that had never been shared with anyone other than his fist.

“Guess you still can’t beat me,” Shiro says. 

“Only because you cheated,” Keith says. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Shiro says. Then he lunges in and wrestles Keith to the ground. Keith squirms in Shiro’s grip, ignoring the way he desperately wants to stay exactly where he is. He manages to work his way free in spite of that and springs to his feet.

They circle one another on the sand, shucking their shoes as they go. 

“You really think you can take me?” Keith says. 

( _God, he wants Shiro to take hi—no.)_

And then Keith trips against a rock and has to regain his balance, too. 

“Big words for someone so unsteady on his feet.”

“We’ll see who’s really unsteady on their feet after I win,” Keith says. 

They keep circling. Keith desperately ignores the way Shiro’s muscles flex under his shirt as he moves.

Earth sand is the actual worst, but he just has to make the conditions work for him. Keith gathers himself, shifts his weight to the center, and charges, hoping to catch Shiro by surprise. 

The move works, but barely. Shiro’s got a quick mind and even quicker reflexes—and he’s not afraid to fight dirty when he needs to. 

He’s clearly decided he needs to. He feints left while sending his prosthetic to the right to clip Keith behind the knees. 

Keith buckles, bracing just in time to narrowly avoid landing flat on his face. He rolls to the side, trying to regain his ground but Shiro’s on him before he can blink, pinning Keith on his back to the sand with his prosthetic.

It’s resting high on Keith’s thigh and Keith _could—_

 _Stop_.

Keith kicks out, clipping Shiro in the shin and sending him sprawling onto the sand beside him. He swallows his inconvenient feelings as he curls his fingers around the wrist of Shiro’s metal arm to wrench himself free. His fingers don’t even make it all the way around Shiro’s wrist. 

It’s messier, after that—until Shiro gets a good grip and seems to have won. Keith leverages their weight just in time to keep Shiro from complete victory. He shakes Shiro’s hold and topples him onto his back, swinging his leg over Shiro’s own and sitting astride his thighs. 

They’re both breathing hard. 

“You guys know this is a public beach, right?” Pidge says. Keith turns to see Pidge, Lance, Hunk, Allura, Coran, Romelle, and Matt standing on the sand. Lance is making a disgusted face, Matt just looks amused, and Hunk is covering Romelle’s eyes.

Romelle claws at his hand. “Stop it, let me see!”

Pidge just adjusts her glasses before taking them off and cleaning them on her shirt. 

“Uh. Yeah,” Keith says. He’s still panting. He’s also still sitting on Shiro.

Pidge slides her glasses back onto her face and cocks an eyebrow. “Right. Okay. Just checking.” 

Keith rises to his feet and pulls down his shirt where it’s bunched up around his arms. Shit. He hadn’t even realized that’d happened. He’s glad he’s wearing loose shorts.

“How long have you guys been here?” Shiro says as he stands. He’s a little red. Maybe they’ve been rolling around in the sun for longer than Keith realized. 

“A few doboshes,” Allura says. There’s a smile stretching across her lips and the only thing it spells is trouble. “Long enough to see the lead up to Keith’s finishing move.”

Keith carefully smoothes his face free of any reaction to the word “finishing.” 

“You’re very clever with your hands, Keith,” Allura says, bright and devious. Lance isn’t even trying to hide laughter, and neither are Pidge or Matt. 

Keith is entirely sure that Lance has been spending all of his free hours teaching Allura euphemisms. 

“So, towels?” Shiro says. It’s not a very neat redirection. At all. Pidge rolls her eyes and Lance mimes something that’s probably supposed to be a chicken dance but looks more like he’s been electrocuted. Allura pats Shiro on the shoulder in a way that’s probably meant to be consoling but comes off more condescending. Matt doesn’t even attempt to hide his laughter.

“Yes! Towels!” Coran says, a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps Keith can show us some festive ways to arrange them since he’s so good with his hands!” 

“Sure, fine,” Keith says, shifting back on his heels. The sooner he gets his towel, the sooner he can repress this moment.

The beach is a small, sandy crescent protected by sheer rock faces with a twisting path winding down from a parking lot perched atop the cliffs. It’s mostly flat but there are small rock spires scattered at either end, and a set of natural caves carved by the sea over millions of years.

Keith rolls out his towel in the perfect spot. He’s near enough to the others that he’ll still be able to talk to them if they holler, but far enough out that unless they’re really trying to get his attention, the only thing that he’ll hear is the ocean.

He leaves his towel behind, strips off his shirt, and goes to stand in the water, letting the waves lick at his feet. It’s quiet out here. There’s the occasional shriek from a seagull, but for right now it’s just Keith, the sound of the waves, and the temporary relief from the fire licking at the underside of his ribs. 

(During their two years atop the space whale’s back, Keith had to see a vision of a future he wasn’t sure he’d ever had. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes to see the old house in the desert, fixed up with older versions of himself and Shiro sitting on the front porch. Even that fleeting fragment hurt in ways he wasn’t sure how to hold. 

He sat there, still and uncertain, until his mom came over to put a hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes it just catches up with you.”)

Keith wades deeper into the water, past his knees, past his shoulders, until he’s squeezed his eyes shut and gone completely under, turning the whole world silent. 

_Sometimes it just catches up with you._

_____________________________________________

Keith drips his way back to his towel and shakes out his hair, flinging drops of sea water everywhere. He wants to stretch out and let the warm rays seep into his skin. Let them erase all the thoughts in his head. 

Shiro's lying on his towel, face down and shirt off. He apparently moved his own closer while Keith was in the ocean. Keith is so weak and so _so_ unprepared to deal with this. He shouldn’t be. He knew that this was a possibility; more than a possibility, a probability. Going to the beach with Shiro meant seeing him shirtless and that was _fine_ —except that it wasn’t. 

Keith is strong. He’s been through Marmora training. But Marmora training was all about espionage, not about hiding your erection when confronted with an actual eight pack courtesy of the very chiseled, very buff love of your life. 

Keith can handle this. Keith is fine. Keith is laying himself down on his towel right now, and definitely not narrating his own actions to avoid looking at Shiro, avoid even thinking about what it would be like to run his hands over his sun-warmed skin to—

 _No._

Keith sighs and lets the sun sink into his muscles, the heat melting them into something more manageable and malleable. It’s almost enough to make him forget that Shiro is so close by and _very_ , very half naked. 

He’s still tense, sure, but that’s just the set of his shoulders these days. 

Besides, Keith shouldn’t even be _this_ affected. He's got practice handling this. But his attempt to come to grips with his feelings again is like catching hold some sort of slippery eel—which is not a good train of thought an—

_Focus._

Keith’s all of patience and all out of focus. What’s left of it is busy tracing the arch of Shiro’s back where he’s splayed out on his towel. He’s got his head pillowed on his arms and he’s tragically but blissfully unaware that Keith is dying a slow, but delicious, death just a few feet away. 

This is fine. How many times has Keith had to stand with Shiro in a communal shower and not get hard? How many times have they cuddled on the couch without incident? How many times will Keith have to smile and smile and smile and pretend he doesn’t want to rip Shiro’s clothes off even as he’d do anything to keep him close, no matter what their relationship is?

As many times as it takes. 

He’s almost managed to drift off when something cool and smooth prods him right at the center of his back. Keith’s had a lot of practice staying put when push comes to shove, but this—he isn’t ready for this.

He squeals. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Sorry,” Shiro says, not sounding all that sorry as his prosthetic retreats back towards his shoulder. He nudges Keith's side a little with his toe and it sparks the embers of the flames that lick at the hollow space behind his ribs.

These days even the most innocent, incidental touch is enough to set Keith aflame. But Shiro can’t know that.

Keith flips him off instead, lets himself sink into the laughter that follows, and closes his eyes. Combined with the persistent beat of the ocean tide against the sand, it’s almost enough to lull him back into the half-sleep he’d been drifting into. 

“Keith.”

“Mmm,” Keith says. He turns his head to get a better look but Shiro's standing in front of the sun, the edges of his silhouette lined in gold. 

“Keith.”

“Yeah?”

And then Shiro crouches down next to Keith’s towel, hands braced atop his knees and Keith gets a view that almost makes him choke on his own spit.

Because—God. Shiro's not playing fair. He’s already crouched down next to Keith’s towel, hands braced atop his knees. Shiro's thighs are so close and so thick and all Keith can think is _how the fuck is Shiro's dick not falling out_ because holy mother of god those shorts really live up to their name. They also have less than zero support. Somehow seeing Shiro’s dick print feels more obscene than seeing him naked any number of times in the communal showers. 

It was a good run, and if this is how Keith dies then at least it's to a formidable and worthy opponent. He may have a few regrets about his life, but he doesn't think death by dick will be one of them.

“Do you need something?” Keith says. Keith would do anything and everything for Shiro but right now he honest to god hopes that Shiro says no. Otherwise this little dance they're doing of Keith studiously ignoring Shiro studiously ignoring Keith's feelings is gonna dissolve and _fast._

“Help me with this?” Shiro holds up a fluorescent plastic tube. 

“Yeah, I'll meet you at your towel, just give me a minute," Keith says, like an idiot. He's going to need weapons grade emotional repression to make it out of this mess.

“Okay.” 

When Keith feels the full heat of the sun return to his skin he sighs with relief. He spends a few minutes to think of the most desperately unsexy things he can manage—including Iverson in a swimsuit. Or Slav in a swimsuit.

Shiro's laid out on his towel like a feast, propped up on his elbows, hips cocked at an angle, and looking entirely too tempting for Keith's fragile state of mind. 

“Look who finally decided to join me.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you drown on your way over here?” 

“I _will_ leave, Shiro.” Even as Keith says it he's already bending down to snag the sunscreen out of Shiro's hand. He flips the top and squirts a dollop into his palm. 

Instant regret. 

Maybe he should be impressed that Shiro managed to find Earth sunscreen after everything the planet’s been through, but all Keith can think is _oh god, why does sunscreen have to be white, thick, and sticky._

“Can you make sure to get my shoulders?” Shiro asks, turning over onto his stomach and giving Keith an incredible view of his back. And his ass.

Shiro’s shoulders are pure muscle. Keith’s present and future is pure suffering.

Of course, Keith gets it. The space between your shoulders is tough to reach, the angle is all wrong and—wait. “Shiro.”

“Mmm.”

“Tell me if—” Keith pauses in the middle of squirting more sunscreen into his palm. Shouldn’t Shiro be able to reach his back with his prosthetic? 

“If what?” Shiro says, muscles flexing as he turns.

 _He probably just didn’t want to risk sunscreen interfering with the tech._ “Never mind.”

“Keith.”

“It’s nothing. Just—tell me if you think I missed a spot.”

“Okay.” Shiro says. “Nothing else?”

“No.” _Yes._

 _“_ If you're sure.”

“I am,” Keith says. He presses Shiro down towards the towel, forcing him to lie flat on his belly and Shiro lets out another soft sigh.

Keith had years to inoculate himself against Shiro's—everything. Not to mention god knows how many hours of exposure therapy over the past couple months. But if the exposure therapy has managed to help Shiro get less sensitive to touch, just like Shiro says it has, then it's had the direct opposite effect on Keith. 

Keith may not be good at lying, but he learned early and he learned fast not to trouble other people with his emotions. This is nothing he shouldn't be able to handle. Except he's not handling this. Not at all.

_____________________________________________

Lance is apparently full of good ideas today, because he suggests that they play volleyball.

Keith would make a revision on his Good Lance Ideas timeline but then Lance makes a huge mistake during the first rounds: despite years of evidence, he still lets Keith and Shiro team up.

It's not a fair fight. They'd trained together before Kerberos; before a pack of sentient cats had taken them to reaches of the galaxy further than they'd even thought to imagine. As Shiro's most frequent sparring partner, Keith knows how he moves.

And the level to which Shiro and Keith and Pidge kick Hunk and Lance and Allura’s asses only serves to re-ignite Lance's one-sided rivalry with Keith.

“Okay, new rule, Shiro and Keith aren't allowed to be on the same team again. Ever.” Lance says. They’re taking a break from volleyball-turned-bloodbath, camping out on the sidelines with the orange slices Coran brought for all of them. 

“Yeah, you two have some weird, freaky force-sensitive Jedi thing going on here.” Hunk says, hand waving a more specific explanation. 

“We do not!” Keith says.

“Guys, back me up here!” Lance says. 

“I hate to admit it—” Pidge says.

“Hey!”

“—but Lance is right.” 

“Thank you!”

So they switch teams the next set. Allura, Hunk, and Keith against Shiro, Lance, and Pidge. And Keith wants to win. He wants to kick Shiro’s ass. He may be just a little obvious about it because the others notice.

“Yeah, I mean, I thought Keith and Shiro were competitive together but I think they're even worse against each other,” Hunk says as Shiro uses his prosthetic to send back the volley Keith just sent over the net.

“I'm not surprised,” Matt says from the sidelines. He's shaded by a large, brilliant green umbrella and cradling a brightly colored drink in one hand. Coran has recently discovered Earth cocktails and he and Romelle get enthusiastic about decorating their finished drinks. This, of course, means that Matt’s drink has seven more of those tiny little paper umbrellas than he actually needs. “Shiro didn’t set all of those Garrison records because he was master of chill.” 

“Matt,” Shiro says, just as Pidge tosses him the ball.

Shiro raises the ball high over his head for a serve. The seam of his shorts ride dangerously high up on his thigh, just centimeters from the crease that separates his hips and his thighs. His dick looks like it’s about to jailbreak his shorts at any moment. 

The ball sails right past Keith. He doesn’t even get a chance to move. 

“And that’s the game to us,” Pidge says, turning to high five with Shiro. Keith’s not sure when it happened—and he’s not sure he’ll even know, honestly—but somehow the two of them and Lance have managed to come up with some sort of complicated handshake that probably took more time to think of that it takes to do. 

“Alright, let’s go home,” Lance says, once they’ve finished. 

“You’re only saying that so you can leave before we can beat you in the next game.” 

Pidge arches a brow. “Keith. You’re not beating anyone. That last shot? Pathetic.” 

“ _Hey_.” Keith says, which—isn’t really an argument. The look Allura shoots him in response says that she knows it. They all know it. 

“Your game does appear to have suffered, Keith,” she says. 

“In Keith’s defense, he seemed a little distracted,” Hunk adds.

“Better luck next time,” Lance says, shooting him the most obnoxious set of fingerguns.

Shiro slings an arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Yeah, better luck next time.” 

_____________________________________________

Riding the high of a day at the beach, Keith attempts to force things back into their regular pattern once they get back to the Garrison compound. And pummel whatever the hell is going on with him into submission from sheer exhaustion. There are more than enough meetings to help him along.

He never thought he’d be thankful for a diplomatic visit, but he figures at least all of the planning will keep him from thinking too much. Or it would, except that Shiro always sits next to him in meetings. It’s not a conscious decision. Years of orbiting around one another mean they’re inevitably pulled into the other’s gravity. It’s fine; more than, really. Keith likes it that way.

(Most of the time. Right now, it’s pressing on his ability to compartmentalize. Right now Shiro’s got his Altean arm settled on Keith’s left shoulder, fiddling with a strand of hair. Right now he’d like Shiro to pull his hair, too, or maybe push three thick fingers into him while making Keith cry a little.) 

Keith forces himself to breathe in hopes of quelling the flames simmering under his skin. 

Today, Shiro outlines the plan. The Coalition wants to provide support to the rebel fighters stationed in the far reaches of the Galra Empire’s dying grasp. There are roadblocks to consider: pirates and looters and the fact that some of the people trying to send them distress signals don’t always have the best methods of communication. The Palluxians are known for their psychic ability to communicate lightning quick across vast distances of space. It’s something Pidge is trying to replicate with technology, but it’ll take time. The Coalitions needs their help.

Shiro's still talking when his arm drifts away from Keith’s shoulder. He's gotten incredibly good at using the sensitivity on his new arm as a radar of sorts, tuning in to the crystal so that he can have a clear idea of where it is at all times. Keith figures Shiro’s sending it off to get something he forgot to bring with him.

Keith's still thinking about the time that they played an incredibly long range combo of tag and hide and seek when something brushes against his leg. He looks down and sucks in a breath. Shiro's prosthetic is resting against his thigh, more than halfway to his groin. He turns and sends Shiro a _what the fuck?_ look and Shiro responds by tilting his head almost imperceptibly towards Keith's thigh and flashing him a wink. 

He looks around the table but while he’s surfing the edge of anxiety no one else seems to notice. No one else seems to notice Shiro—and Shiro’s hands—as much as Keith does.

Keith looks down again and notices the note tucked between Shiro's fingers. He plucks it free, unfolding it to reveal Shiro’s messy writing. 

_Meet after?_

Keith nods at Shiro and it's then that he hears Commander Holt exclaim, “Wonderful, I'm sure all of us are looking forward to Admiral Shirogane and Paladin Kogane’s demonstration tomorrow.”

Keith has no idea what he's just agreed to.

_____________________________________________

If he’d been listening, Keith would have known that the demonstration was a bad idea from the start. 

The main argument for them squaring off against one another was that the Palluxians needed to see that the strength of the Coalition lay with its members rather than its ships. So: an exhibition match between the Coalition’s best fighters. Keith and Shiro are the only ones who can hold their own against one another—but that’s physically, not emotionally.

They peel off from the rest of the Paladins as they near Shiro’s quarters, until it’s just the two of them standing outside his door. The meeting went on later than usual and Keith’s exhausted—though how much of that’s from the meeting and how much of it is from fighting himself, it’s hard to say.

Some of it is knowing he’s going to have to fight Shiro again and remembering what happened the last time he did.

They pause outside of Shiro's door and Keith's just about to say it when Shiro speaks first. “I know it's late, but do you want to come in?”

“You're not tired?”

“I don't want to be alone right now.” Maybe Shiro’s thinking about their fight, too. He looks soft and vulnerable and so young under the glow of the hall lights. 

And what can Keith say to that other than _yes._

_____________________________________________

Keith thinks _I’ll just sit on Shiro’s bed while he changes and then we’ll go back into the the lounge like we usually do._

Except. 

Except that the longer Keith spends on Shiro's bed, the more the day starts catching up to him. Before he knows it he's horizontal and surfing the edge of sleep. 

“Keith?”

“I'm awake.”

“ _Keith._ ”

“Gimme a few seconds and I'll get up and go back to my room,” Keith says, trying to force his eyes back open. A warm hand pushes his hair back from his forehead while a cooler, broader one cups his right cheek. 

“You're too warm,” Shiro says. Keith can hear the frown in his voice. 

“S’fine.”

“It's _not_ fine. I think you have a fever.”

Keith turns his face into the blissfully cool palm of Shiro's prosthetic, feels the fingers skim over his lips as he moves his head.

“Don't worry 'bout it. Dad alway said I ran hot as a kid.”

“I think you should stay here tonight.”

_What._

Keith pries one eye open. Shiro can't mean it the way Keith wants him to. “I don't think that's necessary.”

“It is if you're sick.”

“If I am then I need to go. We can't afford to have both of us out of commission.”

“Keith. Please.”

“I'll take the couch,” Keith says, but his eyes are already slipping shut again. 

“You're dead on your feet and I won't sleep well unless I can keep an eye on you. Just, stay. Please.”

Keith's already asleep before he can raise another protest. 

_____________________________________________

Keith is dreaming. He dreams that he’s asleep in Shiro’s bed. He dreams that he drifts, half sleeping, half waking, drawn out of slumber of a hand trailing down his stomach, of Shiro’s hot breath fanning over the nape of his neck, of Shiro pressing closer and grinding against the swell of his ass. 

In his dreams, he turns, pressing his lips to the soft skin below Shiro’s jaw, decorating it with a bouquet of bruises, like a dark purple “no vacancy” sign, coyly broadcasting _there’s someone I belong to; someone who wants me._

Keith knows what and who he wants. Knows who he wants to want him, to touch him, if only he could just—

Keith is burning; he’s burning and he doesn't think he can stop.

**Author's Note:**

> [ tumblr](http://spookyfoot.tumblr.com) // [ twitter](http://twitter.com/spooky_foot).


End file.
